


Right In Front of Me

by g33kyclassic



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist and his muse, Deaf Character, F/F, Found Family, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g33kyclassic/pseuds/g33kyclassic
Summary: Joe is a student in London at the Royal College of Art, living with roommates Andy, Booker and Quynh. He knows what he wants to do: get the training he needs to change his life from a man hoping from job to job, to that of a professional artist.  And he is completely focused on that goal. Expect for these reoccurring dreams he's had for years that sometimes distract him, and yet also inspire him.One day, in his sketching class, a model walks in and Joe's world changes.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 122
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: I am not an art student, nor an artist. I have no particular knowledge about how art school is structured. All depictions of art school in this fic are thus completely fictional and mostly come from my head and scenes from The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 2. Please forgive me all inaccuracies.

* * *

Joe moved his pencil over the page with a single minded focus. He had to get this image onto the page before the memory of his dream faded and he had nothing more than fragments remaining. He had dozens, maybe hundreds of these sketches – attempts to capture a feeling more than an image, which always seemed to fail.

He never quit trying, though.

How could he? Anyone would want to capture the warmth, the peace, the love he felt in his dreams. How many nights had he had the same dream? Too many to count. It was a dream of motion and touch. Of scent and taste. But mostly of feeling. A feeling of being at one with his companion, a companion he could never quite remember once he woke.

Maybe if he could succeed in getting it down on paper, eyes closed, pencil moving, and heart open, he would finally see the face of the man in his dreams.

“That better be a sketchbook and not my lecture notes.” Andy’s voice broke his rhythm and Joe let his pencil fall.

“One time.” Joe sighed. “I did that one time and you never let me forget it.”

“And I never will.” Andy replied smugly. 

“You capture him today? Dream man?” Booker asked as he strolled in and collapsed on the couch beside him.

Joe scowled. 

“Did you just get home? Did you sleep at all last night? I swear you’ve been wearing those clothes for a week.” Joe wrinkled his nose, giving Booker a thorough look over and pointedly ignoring his question.

“You’re dodging the question.” Booker accused. 

“It might have come out if I hadn’t been interrupted.” Joe arched a brow at Andy, who shrugged dismissively.

“It’s past noon and you’re in our living room.” Andy pointed out. “If you want privacy and quiet, this isn’t the time or place. Don’t you have class soon?”

“Shit!” Joe checked his phone and scrambled up from the couch. 

“Better not be late for your first class with Professor Copley.” Booker advised. “Guy’s a hard ass.”

“You had him for art history, right?” Joe asked as he stuffed his sketchbook, pencils, and books into his bag.

“Yeah. That’s his speciality, but he teaches a few fine arts courses when they need him to. He knocks your grade down if you’re late though, so you better move.”

Joe nodded, suddenly feeling very awake, his adrenalin pumping. He grabbed his bag, slipped his phone into his pocket, and ran out the door.

* * *

By the time Joe made it to the quad near his class, he was able to slow his pace. Thanks to a brake neck sprint from the home he shared with Booker, Andy and Quynh, he’d made it to campus with ten minutes to spare.

Joe only half listened to his classmates as he waited outside his sketching class, their first of the new semester. He didn’t quite fit in with the gaggle of other students milling about the hallway. They’re almost all young, painfully ‘I just moved out of my parent’s house last year’ kind of young, well-off, and white. Joe was none of those things, and everyone else picked up on his difference with little effort. He had a slight accent, his skin was brown, he held down a job while attending university, and it had been years since he’d lived with his parents.

Not to mention, today, like most days before a sketching class last term, one of his classmates, Merrick, and his friend Keane are loudly discussing the physical attractiveness of their past models and debating on what the new model will look like. Words like ‘fuckable’, ‘banging’, and ‘ready for it’ were bandied about with such casual ease, Joe found himself wrinkling his nose in disgust.

If rating the attractiveness of their models counted as conversation, Joe was more than happy to opt out. He can’t imagine a time when he would have said something like that in public, and he prided himself on the knowledge that his private declarations of love would be far more poetic than calling his partner ‘banging’.

He personally admired their fall term professor for finding and using a wide variety of models: old, young, waifish, curvy, a variety of skin tones; the woman seemed to have found something new to challenge them every month. Joe appreciated the challenge – anything to improve his art was good in his book.

Frankly, the only complaint Joe had was that they hadn’t sketched a man, but then their professor had said she wanted them to focus on the ‘feminine mystique’ and bringing ‘out the beauty and mystery’ of every subject.

He pondered what they’re in for this term with Copley. Given his focus on art history, Joe wondered if he might want them to emulate certain styles, or periods. That would be difficult, and though Joe loved art in all its forms, he had been hoping to find his own voice, his own style. That was the reason he’d started getting a fine arts degree in the first place – to express himself.

When the doors finally opened, Joe ambled into the room and found he usual spot; not too close to the front, so he had time to gaze at the model without appearing rude, but not hidden in the back, so he still had a reasonable view. 

The centre dais was empty, but Joe felt the anticipation of seeing a new model run through him. It almost outweighed his apprehension about meeting Professor Copley.

“Good afternoon.” A rich voice called out from the back corner of the classroom. “I am Professor Copley and I will be teaching your Fine Art Sketching module this term. I enjoying following in the same vein as my colleague Professor Stewart, who taught the pre-requisite last term: an appreciation for the human body in all its forms. While Professor Stewart prefers to focus on the female form, this semester we will be branching out beyond the constraint of gender.”

Joe sat straighter in his chair as Professor Copley went on, excited at the prospect of expanding his sketching of the human form within the classroom. This was what he’d wanted and Copley was fulfilling his wish.

“I would like to remind you all before we begin the term, before we begin today, that all of the models that assist us are both professionals and human. You will respect them. You will treat them as professionals. You will not objectify them, and if you do, I will find out and we will have words. I have dismissed students from this class for unacceptable behaviour in the past and I will not hesitate to do so again. Is that understood?” Professor Copley spoke calmly, yet forcefully.

Joe watched as his fellow students nodded or spoke in agreement around him. He joined, of course. Professor Stewart had given a similar, if slightly less intimidating warning the previous term. And he could not imagine why anyone would disrespect the models. To bare yourself in front of a room of strangers took courage, to pose for hours took skill. Joe found it easy to find the beauty in any model, though he could acknowledge that clearly not all his classmates possessed the same ability.

“I wanted to start the term by posing a question: what is male beauty? Just as how we define female beauty has changed over time and differs from culture to culture, so does our interpretation of the ideal man. I believe you will see in our model today, an example of male beauty that has been captured by artists in the past.

“One final note: our model today is deaf. I would like to remind you all that deaf is just that, deaf. Our model is an intelligent, thoughtful young man and an extremely talented model with whom I have worked for years. As per usual, you are not to communicate with the model during the session as I have told him everything he needs to know beforehand. Consider your words to each other during our session today and onward. Our model today reads lips – your words may not be as private as you think they are.

“Please set yourselves up. I will return with your model shortly.”

Copley left briskly and the room erupted with murmurs. Joe ignored the chit chat, bending over and grabbing his charcoals and pencils from his bag and setting them up carefully. He knew it didn’t matter to him what the model looked like, but Copley’s introduction had him intrigued. He wondered if the man today would look like DaVinci’s Vitruvian man, or the boyish good looks favoured by Caravaggio, or perhaps the rugged overtly masculine ideal often portrayed in Hollywood westerns of the sixties.

Regardless, Joe’s fingers itched to pick up a pencil and begin. His body twitched in anticipation and he had to consciously tense his muscles to stop himself from bouncing in his seat.

As his roommates knew well, Joe had never come across an opportunity to draw, to create art, and not taken it. It was why he was here at the Royal College of Art. It was why he was living in a tiny flat with three roommate and working almost full time hours, while attending classes full time, trying to make ends meet in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Despite everything, his tumultuous upbringing, his lack of family support, his previous vagabond lifestyle, his lack of formal training in the arts, he was making it happen. From pure passion, desire, and determination, he was carving out a place for himself and building a foundation upon which he hoped to build a career as an artist.

This term with Professor Copley, despite Booker’s warnings and Joe’s own suspicion that Copley would not make life easy on his students, was simply one more step toward becoming a better artist. Joe was going to seize the day: carpe diem.

Joe was so focused on controlling his body and his thoughts, he almost missed the model entering the room.

He jerked his head up when he heard the door close sharply. By then the model had passed him by and was stepping up onto the dais in the centre of the room. 

Joe was looking at his back, which was covered by the typical white robe all the models wore. He seemed young, his hair a sort of nondescript muddy brown, his body perhaps slightly taller than average, though Joe guessed the man wasn’t much taller than himself. He moved with an odd precision, as if he was both comfortable with his body, but also very attuned to how his every step affected the space around him. It was rather hypnotic to watch.

Joe kept looking, feeling a bit off kilter, as the model reached the dais, disrobed and then sat on the chair provided, posing in a sort of modern version of the ‘thinking man’, hunched over, back rounded, one elbow resting on his knee.

Joe took him in and wondered at the pose, head bowed, the model’s face obscured – an odd choice. Joe couldn’t help but feel cheated; he loved nothing more than capturing the expression of a model, the emotion behind their eyes. In this position, he would have to work form body language alone.

Then, as if the model heard Joe’s internal pleas, the model lifted his head and Joe was struck dumb. Frozen on the spot, his pencil gripped so tightly in his hand it hurt. Joe tried to keep his mouth from gaping and he stared.

It was him. The man from his dreams, the man he had been trying to draw for years, but never succeeded in capturing, was sitting right in front of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Note: Nicky is deaf and does not speak. However, I have formatted his signing like typical dialogue without always adding "He signed" (simply to reduce repetition and for ease of formatting). So whenever Nicky has dialogue, he is signing.

* * *

“How was it?” Copley signed after tapping on his shoulder.

Nicky shrugged.

“Anyone I should be looking out for?” Copley asked, head cocked, eyes alert.

Nicky shook his head.

“Fine." Copley stepped back. “Keep your secrets if you must. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

Nicky gave Copley a small smile. There had been comments, there always were, but he hadn't read anything out of the ordinary on people's lips today. Nothing more that the typical: initial shock, disgust, or interest at seeing a penis, depending on the student, and a few judgemental comments on his proportions. After modelling for Copley for several years, today had not presented anything worrisome.

“Thank you.” He signed. “For the opportunity.”

“You earned it. You’re the best model I have.” Copley answered back. “One of my models slept with half the female students last year, what a disaster that was. So if you keep your self out of student’s bedrooms, I will be satisfied.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

* * *

“What are you doing?” 

Joe startled at the sound of Booker’s voice behind him, and scowled over his shoulder.

“Do you ever keep regular hours?”

“You’ve lived with me for two years, you already know the answer to that.” Booker said, sticking his head into the fridge and drinking straight out of the milk carton.

“That better not be Andy’s soy milk, or she’s going to lock you out of the house – again. There’s leftover mujaddara in the fridge, and if you look hard enough you might find some chocolate halvah – which I am only revealing because I know you haven’t eaten all day.”

“Who needs food when there’s coffee around?” Booker turned, closing the fridge, bowl of mujaddara in hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “I signed up for a class at the student centre, I’m just watching a recommended video.”

Andy stepped in then, moving forward until she was peeking over his shoulder. Joe pointedly ignored her, watching his video, until Booker interrupted again.

“So you’re working, taking a full course load, and you decided to randomly take a class through the student centre for… fun?”

“I have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.” 

“Liar.” Andy cut in. “Who’d you fall in love with this time? Hmm. Who’s the big crush?”

“I just think learning sign language will be helpful, in general.” Joe protested weakly, turning around and facing Andy.

“Helpful like how you signed up for knitting classes to impress Leo, who he said he got too cold during London winters, or when you took ballroom dancing lessons to get closer to Antonio, and then had to find an excuse to quit because you discovered you have two left feet. Or – and this was the best one of all – when you joined intermural racket ball because of Percival Granville, and ended up with a black eye and discovered that your crush was the biggest douche on the face of the planet. You, Joe, have the worst taste in men and you fall in love with a new one every month. So, who is it this time?”

“Is it this guy?” Booker asked, holding up Joe’s sketch book. “He’s kinda cute.”

“Give me that!” Joe lurched toward Booker, but the Frenchman tossed the sketchbook over to Andy before Joe could even take a step.

“Wow, impressive.” Andy said, flipping through the book. “You’ve filled half a book with this guy. This might be your most ridiculous crush yet.”

Joe finally got his hands on his sketchbook and wrenched it out of Andy’s hand. He closed it, smoothing out the front cover carefully, before glaring at his interfering roommates.

“It is not a ridiculous crush.” Joe retorted. “And he is not ‘kinda cute’. Is Michelangelo’s David ‘cute’? No, its a work of art. As is this man.” Joe scowled at Booker. “You have no taste.”

“Never said I did.” Booker answered with a shrug. “So your crush is in this class too?”

“You two are ridiculous and nosy.” Joe shook his head. “So I have a bit of a crush, that’s nothing out of the ordinary, as you’ve already noted.”

Joe smiled, not afraid to poke fun at himself, and Booker laughed. He could play this off, he thought. Just another crush. It was nothing like that, of course. It wasn’t that simple; he’d never felt anything like this before in his life. But Booker and Andy didn’t need to know that. Usually Joe was an open book; he wore his heart on his sleeve and wasn’t ashamed of it. This though, Joe wanted to keep this to himself. He wanted this man – who’s name he didn’t even know yet – to be his, only his, at least of a while. He wanted to protect this feeling. He felt like if he didn’t keep this safe, if he didn’t hold on to whatever this was with careful hands, it was all going to fall apart.

How was he supposed to explain any of that – even to Booker and Andy? How could explain to anyone that you’d met a man who’d seemed to have stepped right out of your dreams into reality?

“Have you heard from Quynh?” Joe asked, grasping onto a topic he knew would take the attention of him and his crush.

“Yeah, Andy.” Booker added. “Have you?”

Andy gave Joe a look, one he knew meant she was aware he was dodging and she wasn’t fooled; she was annoyed.

“She’s texted a few times. Start of term is busy.” Andy shrugged. “You know Quynh, she’s got to try everything and anything. She says Sydney’s nice, her supervisor is excited about her project, she wants to learn how to surf. Typical too busy Quynh.”

“She’ll call.” Joe said, confidently.

Quynh always called, eventually. She and Andy had been a couple for years now, they balanced each other; Andy’s slightly pessimistic nature with Quynh’s enthusiasm to try every experience life had to offer. Quynh rushed into things head first and Andy stood back and pulled her out if things go to be too much. Still, this was their first time so far apart for such a long time.

When Quynh left for Australia two months ago to complete her Master’s degree, it had been with Andy’s support. For someone studying ancient Asian history, moving her base of study closer to the source of her studies made sense; Quynh already had travel to archeological sites in Asia booked for the fall and spring term. Everyone had been excited for her. 

Had Andy moped for a while after she left? Of course she had. But it was the lack of regular communication that was slowly eating away at her, Joe could tell.

“Hey, are we gonna rent out her room?” Booker asked, oblivious to the tension in the room, or more likely aware of the tension in the room, but driving ahead anyway. “She’s not going to be back for two years. It’s just empty, we should get some money for it, cut our costs. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Post something, Book, you know what to do.” Andy replied, her eyes stony.

She turned around and left the room without another word.

“You have no tact.” Joe gave Booker a hard glare. 

The plan had been to rent out Quynh’s room, it was obviously the best financial choice. But then Andy had hesitated, leaving the room empty for the summer and now, September was here and the room was still empty.

“I get it – she misses Quynh and the radio silence isn’t helping. But a bit of extra money for the rent is the best thing for all of us. You can’t tell me you aren’t hurting, working extra hours to make up the difference.”

“I may be tired working extra hours, but I’m not the one worried that my girlfriend of five years has forgotten about me!” Joe hissed.

“Keeping her room empty isn’t going to solve that problem.” Booker argued.

Joe sighed. “You’re right. Do what Andy said - post the room.”

“Where are you going?” Booker called as Joe walked to the door.

“I’m going to write Quynh a very long email about how shitty it is to not call your girlfriend for a month when you’re half a world away.” Joe muttered.

“She’s gonna love that.” Booker arched a brow.

“If she calls to yell at me, I’ll just pass the phone to Andy. Then they can hash out their shit.”

* * *

Nile walked through her mother’s back garden and stopped at the open door of the back shed. She leaned against the doorway, her heart flooded with warmth and some apprehension as she watched the man inside putter about.

As much as she didn’t want to have this conversation, it had to happen. She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone, sending a message. Nicky took the vibrating phone out of his pocket and turned quickly after reading her message, a smile on his face.

“Nile.” He signed, stepping forward. “I thought you were teaching tonight?”

“The signing class starts next week. I just recommended some videos and websites this week. Don’t want to overwhelm people the first week of the semester.” Nile explained.

“Full roster?” Nicky asked.

“Pretty much. Had a last minute addition just this morning.”

“It’s good that you’re teaching. Your mother must be very proud of you.”

Nile let her gaze drop to the floor and huffed out a breath. Her mother was proud, and she knew Nicky was too. Growing up with a younger brother who was deaf, she’d learned to sign at an early age, and even when her brother had decided to get an implant so he could hear, Nile had kept her signing skills sharp.

When they’d moved to London, her mother getting a job offer at the University of London, Nile had come along. She already knew she wanted to see Europe; the architecture, the art, the history. It was simple to find a good university in London to continue her own studies. She didn’t have any regrets about the move, she was only grateful for all the opportunities and surprises that had come her way.

Wonderful surprises like Nicky.

Nicky, who had patiently tutored her brother, Kei, in BSL, since it differed from ASL and Kei still relied on sign for some communication. Nicky, who had showed her around London with nothing but the utmost respect and a clear eye for history and art. He was such a good man, and had become an even better friend.

Which was what made this conversation so difficult.

“Nicky...” Nile began, looking back up into the green eyes of her friend. “It was fine to have you stay in the shed for the summer, but the weather isn’t going to stay warm for long. Mom’s worried and she’s insistant: you have to find somewhere else to live. Somewhere with heat and electricity.”

Nile tried her best to smile at her teasing words. They would be truly funny, if they weren’t also true. And if Nicky hadn’t been through what he’d been through, in both his life, and his last living situation.

“I understand.” Nicky sighed, looking over his shoulder, before turning and giving her a small smile.

Nile wondered what he saw there. All Nile could see was a tiny bed, lifted up on top of storage drawers, a thread bare chair, and a pile of gardening tools packed into the corner. It wasn’t a home, it was a shed – Nicky had a bucket with water on the only shelf because he didn’t have running water. The man deserved better.

“I’ll help you look. There are always places posted online. Plus, any students who are still looking to rent out a room will be desperate for someone by now – bet we can find a good deal.” Nile infused her voice with all the enthusiasm she could.

“I have some money saved now, I can afford more than I could before..” Nicky explained. “And I have a second job this term.”

“At the College of Art?” Nile asked, remembering. “Did you start this week?”

Nicky nodded. “A couple days ago.”

“How do you do it? Stand there naked in front of strangers?” 

Nile was genuinely curious; Nicky was such a private man in almost every respect, the nude modelling had always struck her as a bit out of character.

“It isn’t as hard as it might seem. My job is to be focused, to be still, and I am good at that. And there are times you cannot be choosy about how you make money.” Nicky shrugged.

“Doesn’t it feel exposing? All those people looking at you?” Nile probed.

“They aren’t looking at me, they’re looking at the form, the lines of the body. A body is just a body; one is not so different from any other. I do not think of the people drawing while I pose, I think about other things.”

“Recipes?” Nile asked hopefully.

“Perhaps.” Nile watched the corner of Nicky’s mouth twitch upward just the slightest bit.

“Please come in the house. You can bake and I will check SpareRoom for you, make a shortlist of places to check out.” Nile offered, knowing Nicky would prefer to be in the kitchen than on the computer.

Nicky nodded, silently stepping forward in his typically quiet way.

“What recipes did you come up with this week?” Nile said as she walked, excitement clouding her thoughts.

“I thought of your American staple: apple pie.” Nicky replied, his face open and happy in the way it often was when he talked about baking.

“Just apple pie?” Nile arched a brow.

“Two versions: a savoury with sharp cheese and eggs; and a sweet, with caramel, tart apples, and candied sugar on top, with bites of bitter coffee bean inside. We may have to do some shopping.” 

“God, I’m hungry already.” Nile moaned and the laughed. “I will buy you whatever you need, cause this is going to be so good – everything you make is so amazing!”

Nile almost made a comment about how Nicky should open a bakery, but caught herself. There were a great many reasons why Nicky hadn't opened a bakery, and they didn't need to talk about any of them now. Instead, she linked an her arm through Nicky's and they walked into the house together; two friends ready to cook a meal to remember.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

“You could have told us about the room.” 

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Andy shrugged, not bothering to look up from her lunch.

Joe huffed out a frustrated breath.

“I spent all morning cleaning out Quynh’s ‘bedroom’, which was really a closet. The messiest closet I have ever seen.”

He should have suspected that Quynh’s bedroom, which to Joe’s knowledge she had never slept in (she and Andy slept together in Andy’s room), would be a surprise. Opening the door this morning to find mounds of clothes, stacks of binders, photographs, and books, and a surprisingly large collection of historical costumes complete with replica weaponry should not have been such a shock, but it was.

“You and Book sort it out?” Andy asked casually.

“No. Me and Book did not ‘sort it out’.” Joe grumbled. “Because Booker is still hungover and asleep. I tried to wake him up at 9am and he puked on my feet – my bare feet. So not only did I have to wash my feet and the carpet, I cleaned out Quynh’s non-bedroom myself.”

“I am so sorry.” Andy said deadpan and clearly not at all sorry.

Joe sighed. Honestly he’d not really expected anything else, he just needed to spout out his anger while it was hot so he could deflate and move on. Andy was like an immoveable rock, at least on the surface; she never showed herself to be affected, but at least she let him vent.

“I took pictures.” Joe continued. “I have to go to work, but I sent them to Booker so he can get something posted. You’ll nag at him for me, right?”

“With pleasure.”

* * *

Sometimes, people forgot he was there and said things perhaps they shouldn’t have. Nicky wasn’t sure if it was because he was deaf, or if it was because he was quiet and unassuming, and thus blended in well. He tried not to analyze over much, but he seemed prone to such things, turning ideas over in his mind over and over again.

Today, he was reading things off people’s lips that bothered him. Their words bothered him very much.

Nicky was not unfamiliar with prejudice and dominant behaviour. It was not something he is willing to stand by and watch silently.

The women sitting next to him had her shoulders curled, trying to make herself small as the two men standing next to her made comment after comment about her body, her sexual habits, her clothes. Nicky had been frowning, scowling really, at them for several minutes, to no effect.

Nicky did what he felt he must: he stood, positioning himself between the two men and the woman, blocking them from her view as best he could.

The reaction from the two men was swift, Nicky could see their lips moving faster, their expressions clouded with anger. They were speaking too fast for him to make out exactly what they were saying, though he caught more than a few slurs directed his way. He didn’t let the words affect him, remaining where he was and hoping the bus was on schedule; that both he and the woman behind him might escape from these miscreants without further incident.

“The fuck is wrong with you mate?” Nicky cocked his head slightly to the side, almost sure of what the man had said, but struggling to be sure.

The man closest to him chose that second to push Nicky in the shoulder, shoving him firmly and causing Nicky to take a half-step back to keep his balance.

“You listening to me? You dumb, mate? Or deaf?”

Nicky watched the man and his friend laugh, and squared his stance. He’d met men like this before; men who we’re looking for a fight, men who belittled others to make themselves feel better. He prepared himself, feeling the earth beneath his feet and grounding himself. If he was about to be punched, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time, he was going to be ready.

He did not anticipate the arrival of an avenging angel.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Nicky signed, putting down his knife and pausing his chopping.

“How could I forget.” Nile answered. “I saved your ass from those hooligans.”

Nicky smiled slightly, the memories still rolling around in his mind.

Nile gave him a hard look. “Did you get yourself in trouble again, Nicky?”

Nicky shook his head.

“No trouble at all? Nothing happened when you went over to see Mrs. Jamison and picked this zucchini?”

“Mrs. Jamison and I did not come to blows.” Nicky replied straight faced.

“Do not play with me.” Nile narrowed her eyes and pointed her knife in his general direction.

Nicky couldn’t help but let his lips twitch with humour. Though younger than him, Nile had a protective spirit, likely due to her own upbringing as a big sister. He didn’t need her protection, but he appreciated her concern and knew it came from a place of love.

Nicky slowly unzipped his hoodie, to reveal the once white shirt beneath.

“There were some boys. They threw tomatoes at me.” Nicky shrugged. “I did not see them – my head was down, picking for Mrs. Jamison. One scowl and they were gone.”

Nile stepped around the kitchen island and gave him a closer inspection. Nicky knew she was seeing the splatters of red tomato juices spread across his cotton t-shirt.

“You look like you’ve been shot.” Nile arched a brow and then rolled her eyes. “Take that off – I’ll go get one of Kei’s shirts for you and chuck your’s in the wash.”

Nicky did as he was told; it was hardly the first time Nile had seen him without a shirt. In addition, he didn’t have a large wardrobe and if Nile could get the stains out, he’d be glad to keep it in rotation for clothes presentable to the outside world.

He occupied himself by chopping the rest of his zucchini, and then grabbing a new one and grating it carefully. He had plans for Mrs. Jamison’s harvest: simple roasted parmesan zucchini and a double chocolate zucchini loaf for dessert. He wanted to teach Nile before he moved; recipes she could easily make on her own, reminders of when he’d been living here – not that he had any plans of being far away.

London was a sprawling city, and Nicky had lived in more than a handful of different neighbourhoods since he’d arrived ten years ago, an eighteen year old with little more than a suitcase and a fragile hope for a new life. This neighbourhood, with Nile, with Mrs. Jamison and the community garden, with its expansive greenspace and crooked laneways; this was where he wanted to stay.

The problem, of course, was money.

Nicky had saved as much as he could, but London was not a forgiving city, particularly this close to central London. Nonetheless, Nicky was determined to find something. If the twenty plus messages Nile had sent him with links for rooms over the last few days was any indication, she was determined too.

A couple hours later, while sharing a generous piece of the chocolate zucchini loaf, Nicky has his head bowed over the apartment options Nile up on her phone. They’ve been looking for a while now, when Nicky finally pointed a finger at a place he liked.

“That one?” Nile asked, suspicious. “The bedroom is one of the smallest we’ve seen. The price is good and the location is pretty close to the university, but that bedroom is so long and narrow, and I think there’s a full set of armour in the back corner.” Nile said peering down at the picture of the room.

Nicky waited for a moment before he reached for Nile’s phone and swiped to the photo that had originally caught his eye.

“Really, Nicky?” Nile arched a brow.

Nicky nodded, giving Nile an encouraging smile.

“I should have known you’d pick a place not for your own room, but for the kitchen.” Nile sighed, but then smiled ruefully. “I’ll send them a message for you. But when we go look at the place, you better actually give the bedroom a thorough inspection.”

* * *

Joe was almost embarrassingly early for class. Andy would have called it embarrassing; she basically already had when she mocked him for leaving the house at 9am to make it to a 10am class.

He couldn’t help himself. Last week, he had only had still life drawing once, but this week, the first full week of the semester, he had it twice, both Tuesday and Thursday. He was itching to sketch again, almost shaking with anticipation. He’d walked around the building at least five times, trying to get the jitters out, wanting to settle himself down before he entered the room. 

Professor Copley hadn’t actually said they would have the same model this week, but instructors often had favourites and Joe had a feeling of optimism that was making him ‘insufferable’ according to Andy. He couldn’t help it, when he got like this; all flushed with attraction and the potential of a relationship, he simply oozed optimism. It drove Andy up the wall.

He just wanted to get in front of an easel again. He wanted to know that he’d remembered the lines of his dream man’s face; the arch of his brow, the depth in his eyes, the placement of his mole. What if over the last few days he had somehow been drawing him wrong? There were so many more details he wanted to make note of this time: the exact colour of those penetrating eyes, the shape of his hands, the length of his spine. He wanted to commit it all to memory, and replicate it in pencil, ink, charcoal, and oils.

By the time Joe actually entered the classroom, he was visibly calm, though still inwardly flooded with excitement. 

He’d been practicing signing ‘Hello, my name is Joe' all weekend, and if he was just confident enough, he might even put his practice to use today. Maybe he’d have a serendipitous meeting with his dream man after class: they’d bump into each other and Joe could apologize (by rubbing a circle on his chest – he’d learned that one too), and then introduce himself and hope his dream man was as enamoured by Joe as Joe was by him.

Yes, today could be the day Joe’s life changed forever. He had a good feeling about today.

* * *

“Stop looking over at him with your hound dog eyes.” Andy fixed Booker with a piercing glare. “He dug himself into this hole of misery all on his own.”

“He looks worse than usual.”

“He is moping like the world is ending because he didn’t get to see his crush today – a man he has set eyes on once and never spoken to. He is being ridiculous.” Andy scowled over at Joe.

“I can hear you.” Joe’s head lolled to the side, looking over at Andy and Booker at the kitchen table.

“Ignore him.” Andy instructed, turning back to Booker. “Tell me about who’s interested in the room.”

“Well...” Booker rubbed the back of his neck. “There were quite a few people to weed through, but here are the top five.”

Andy leaned over and scanned the profiles Booker had up on his computer.

“No to this guy: I am not living with someone who tap dances as a hobby.”

“Good point.” Booker nodded.

“This one has to go too: she has racist Facebook posts from this year.” Andy frowned at Booker. “Did you not do a social media check on these people?”

“Sorry, boss.” Booker looked down, deleting another name off the list.

“The final three can come over for tours and face to face. Though this guy has no social media profile at all, which is suspicious for a twenty seven year old man in this day and age.”

“Neither do you!” Joe piped in.

“Roommates too lazy to get their asses off the couch get no say in the search for a reasonable housemate.” Andy declared.

Andy watched as Joe groaned and moaned, but managed to drag himself off the couch and make his way to the table.

“Welcome to the grown up table.”

“Have you no empathy for me? I thought I was going to see him Andy – my dream man, and then, he wasn’t there. It was just some muscle bound weight lifter type with muscles on top of muscles.” Joe sighed.

“And what did your Professor say?” Andy prompted, stringing Joe along like an errant child.

“He said ‘last week’s model will be back on Thursday.’”

“Thursday Joe. That’s two days from now. Two days.”

“Two more days without those eyes, Andy. You would not believe the depth of them, there are whole worlds inside his eyes. His -”

“I cannot listen to this.” Andy cut in. “If you have to pine after the man, just write him a poem or something. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“A poem?” Joe sat back thoughtfully. “A poem… yes. Yes.”

Andy sighed as Joe immediately grabbed a random piece of paper off the table, stole Booker’s pen out of his hand and started writing.

“Are you writing is Arabic?” Booker asked, watching Joe’s hand move frantically across the page.

“All the best poetry is Arabic, especially love poems. The language helps the heart leap from the body to the page.” Joe muttered, not looking up from his writing.

“We’ve lost him Book.” Andy rolled her eyes. “So, these are the final candidates: Georgia, Nicky, and James. Send them all a message – we can give tours tomorrow. If they can’t make it, too bad. We’ll offer the room to the first reasonable person with a good reference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading my little fic! I know my pace is slow and I appreciate you sticking with me :)
> 
> All comments and kudos are treasured like the jewels they are!
> 
> Also, if anyone would like to beta this for me, please let me know. I am lyricfulloflight on tumblr if you want to drop me a message!


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

“You should have told them,” Nile signed, frowning over at Nicky.

Nicky shook his head. “They judge. Hearing people. They don’t understand, they just dismiss.”

“I’m a hearing person.” Nile objected, hand to her chest in fake offence.

“You have your brother. You sign. You understand – mostly.” Nicky smiled lightly. “I have had the door shut in my face before. People know I’m deaf and they think I’m dumb as well. Today, with you to help me, I hope that won’t happen.”

“Their messages were nice though, right?”

“Their messages were informative and timely.”

“So they could be a bunch of jerks.”

Nicky could only shrug. It was certainly possible that he and Nile were about to walk into a household full of jerks, or narrowminded assholes. He’d certainly been there before. Finding a place to live was difficult in the London market, especially if you had a strict budget, and even more so if you had a disability of any type. Being different or odd was not an advantage when hunting for a flat.

“I might be here today, but you’ll have to communicate with them eventually.” Nile commented.

“Yes.” Nicky acknowledged. “I have my phone. And I have been known to teach a sign or two.”

Nile laughed and Nicky felt his mouth twitch into a slight smile. Trying to live in the hearing world wasn’t easy. All deaf people had their struggles, and Nicky, as someone profoundly deaf, living in a country that spoke a language different then his homeland, knew he’d had some unique struggles. He couldn’t speak English, and hearing people were often put off at having to read text on a screen.

Nicky had experienced his fair share of reactions to his deafness over the years. He doubted today would offer any surprises.

* * *

“Did you clean anything?” Joe asked, standing over Booker, who was hunched over the dining table, his head cradled in his arms. “Come on, Book. People are arriving for the tour in a couple hours. Get your lazy ass up and clean the damn bathroom. If you don’t get moving, I’ll sic Andy on you.”

“Fine.” Booker muttered.

“You’re not moving.” Joe stood arms crossed until Booker finally got to his feet.

“How tense is Andy?” Booker asked as they walked down the hall.

“She’s been cleaning since the crack of dawn. And reorganizing, which immediately ruins everything she just cleaned.”

“So a nine out of ten?”

“Something like that. I’m going to try to get her out of the house for an hour or so, before she can do any more damage.”

Joe couldn’t help but picture the mess of books he’d literally stumbled over in the hall this morning. Andy had been dusting, but then decided to rearrange all of the bookshelves. Apparently Andy had felt it necessary to alphabetize every book they collectively owned, but had then changed her mind and wanted to sort them by category, before giving that up and starting to stack them by colour. By the time Joe had gotten himself out of bed, Andy had books scattered everywhere. It had been a disaster zone. It had taken them almost two hours to get all the books back on the shelves. 

Joe wasn’t willing to risk Andy tearing the house apart again before the prospective roommates arrived. Thankfully, only a few blocks away, was a boxing gym.Unfortunately after two tours and meeting two potential housemates, Andy was standing in their living room, her arms crossed over her chest glaring at the door. Joe checked his watch; the last potential roommate was set to arrive in five minutes. It was possible Andy would take one look at the man and slam the door in his face.

Joe knew that Andy wasn’t a huge fan of strangers in her space, but he hadn’t remembered just how much Quyhn had tempered the other woman. Thinking back on it now, when he’d first toured the flat, it had been Quyhn who had lead the way, showing Joe the rooms, asking him about himself and his life, while Andy had followed them both around, looking like she was deciding if she wanted to live with him or bury him in the backyard.

It had taken Joe a few weeks to get used to the intensity of Andy’s gaze once he’d moved in. She took in all the details and she had a weariness about life that was odd to see in a woman still in her twenties. Under that hard exterior was a steadfastly loyal and deeply caring person, who was simply very particular about who she let into her life.

Clearly she was feeling very particular today.

“If you’re going to bite everyone’s head off today, we won’t find a roommate at all.” Booker commented, looking down at his hands as he lounged on the couch.

“Did you want to live with either of them?” Andy threw back.

Joe could admit she had a point. James had been a nice enough man, but far too meek. He’d literally been shaking under the intensity of Andy’s glare. Georgia had been a talker. As someone who also loved the spoken word, Joe understood her need to vocalize. However, he’d been rather hoping she would understand the value of silence: she hadn’t. It had been more than Booker could take; halfway through the tour he’d ducked into their tiny shared garden and not come back.

“Let’s just try to be nice to the next guy.” Joe said, hoping he could convince Andy to put her verbal claws away for the next thirty minutes. “Focus on the fact that a tolerable roommate will save us all some money, yeah?”

Andy snorted and Booker rolled his eyes, but after a moment, they both gave a grudging: “Fine”.

It would have to do.

* * *

“Hi.”

Joe stared at the woman at the door, slightly confused, but determined to make the best of this last tour.

“Hi. I’m Joe. Are you Nicky?”

“No,” The woman smiled and then let out a little laugh. “Nicky’s downstairs fixing your bell. He’ll be up in a minute. He doesn’t like leaving things broken when he knows how to fix them.”

“The landlord was supposed to fix it last week, but he’s been visiting his sick mom, so we just left it.” Joe explained. “We’re not super handy.”

“Don’t worry about it, this is just a Nicky thing; you guys said the bell wasn’t working in your message to him and he never forgot about it. He will not judge you if you don’t pick him to be your housemate - he's just a really nice guy. I’m Nile by the way.”

With the relaxed confidence typical of an American, Nile shook Joe’s hand firmly with a grin on her face.

“I’m just his second set of eyes today. Well, and his ears. And maybe his voice, a bit.”

“His voice?” Joe was starting to worry about this tour and this 'Nicky'.

“I should let Nicky explain.”

Joe was about to open his mouth and ask how exactly this mysterious Nicky who fixed doorbells, but possibly didn’t have a voice, or ears was going to tell him much of anything, when a man appeared behind Nile in his doorway. When the light hit his face, his perfectly sculpted face, Joe was lucky he still had a voice at all: it was the model from his art class.

On any other day, Joe would have described himself as well spoken - in his best moments, eloquent wouldn’t have been out of place. In preparation for seeing his dream man again, Joe had spent a good deal of time over the past week practicing introducing himself in BSL. He thought he was getting pretty good.

Seeing his dream man – Nicky – in his flat, so unexpectedly, had tied Joe’s tongue in knots. He stared; Nicky looked both the same and different up close and in his flat. He was just as perfectly, classically handsome as when Joe had seen him last, and yet, he was so much more. His eyes were larger, deeper, more soulful. His nose was larger, a solid presence in the middle of his face, patrician in its grandeur. His lips curved more subtly, more romantically than Joe had remembered while he was sketching at home. His mouth clammed up, his mind whirling, Joe longed for paper and pencil.

He managed to catch Nile introducing herself to everyone. Nicky began signing beside her and Nile translated smoothly, with a confidence Joe immediately envied.

“Nicky wanted me to come so communication would be easier.” Nile explained, standing so both Nicky and everyone else could see her hands. “Smart phones are really handy these days. You won’t have to worry about communication if I’m not here – Nicky’s an excellent texter.”

Nicky somehow rolled his eyes at Nile in a playful loving way, while also giving the group at large a shy smile. Joe watched in fascination as Nicky moved his hands; the speed and fluidity was astounding.

“You have a very lovely home. Thank you for having us today.” Nile translated.

“You fixed the bell.” Joe said.

Was it possible to have said anything more inane? Joe didn’t think so.

It was at that moment that he noticed both Andy and Booker were looking between him and Nicky as if they were putting together a not particularly complicated puzzle.

“Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” Joe finished, lamely, his eyes glued to Nicky.

“It was easy.” Nile passed along, and then paused as Nicky continued signing looking directly at Joe. “Safety is important. Nicky didn’t like the idea that someone might surprise you.”

“You have a reliable income?” Andy asked, face inscrutable. 

Joe glared at Andy; not that she appeared to notice. She remained stoned faced, not even turning her head to meet Joe’s eyes. 

“He does.” Joe was pleased to hear the steel in Nile’s tone as she answered. “Nicky’s been working at the Centre for Deaf Education for over five years.”

“Teacher?” Andy continued, expressionless with her arms crossed over her chest.

Joe tore his eyes away from Andy to watch Nicky shake his head and begin miming what looked like mopping the floor.

“He started as a janitor. He does most of the maintenance for the building now.” Nile elaborated.

“And the University.” Joe added, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You work there too.”

Joe could feel himself flushing; the heat creeping up his neck and his cheeks. As everyone, Nile, Andy, Booker, and most of all Nicky, all turned to look at him, he was grateful he kept a full beard which helped hide some of his current embarrassment.

Nicky nodded slowly, almost tentatively. He moved his hands in a quick sequence, which Nile (and Joe, he was self aware enough to admit as much) watched closely.

“His work at the university is intermittent.” Was all she said in response to Joe’s statement.

Nicky was looking his way again, and Joe both craved every second of it and wanted to crawl into a hole all at once. There were unfathomable depths in those blue eyes and Joe wanted to get lost in them forever. But they were also inscrutable. Joe felt his fingers twitch wondering what the other man was thinking of him. Had he recognized Joe from the art class? Did he think Joe was some disgusting creep who remembered every still life model in grotesque detail? Could he see the blush on Joe’s cheeks? Did he like the flat? Was it possible he and Joe might actually live together? That Joe would get to wake up every morning and study those eyes?

“We should start the tour.” Andy stated, her voice cutting through the spell Joe was under.

Andy lead Nicky and Nile down the hall and Joe gazed after them, his feet stuck to the floor.

“So that’s him, hmm.” Booker commented. “Your naked model.”

Joe nodded without comment. He was far too distracted watching Nicky’s ass as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“You gonna move anytime soon?” Joe heard Booker speaking, but didn’t comprehend a single word. “Guess not. I cannot wait to listen to you and Andy argue about who our new roommate is going to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> All comments and kudos are treasured like the jewels they are :)


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